


Private Fears in Public Places

by IxiaGrey



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Pining, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 08:47:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19314718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IxiaGrey/pseuds/IxiaGrey
Summary: These two dumb boys attend a wedding and pretend they haven't each hopelessly fallen for each other.





	Private Fears in Public Places

The wedding had been quite a lovely affair, all things considered.

\----------

It had been Aziraphale who’d received the invitation, spidery calligraphy across cream-colored heavy paper, nestled amongst the small pile of mail he regularly ignored, slipped through the mail slot in the bookshop door. It’d taken him nearly two weeks to even notice it, prone as he was to simply… ignoring other written correspondence these days. Junk mail, you know. He was sure the concept had been thought up by Below, and dutifully ignored most of it.

(Crowley, incidentally, felt the same, only the other way round - he’d have received his own envelope, had he ever bothered to check the mailbox attached to his flat.)

\---------

“Really, my dear, we can’t just-”

Crowley rolled his eyes, which shouldn’t have had the effect of cutting off Aziraphale’s exposition, except that it did. “Maybe you can’t. I can.” The demon was flopped across an overstuffed armchair, one leg draped over the arm in a way that ought to have been casual, lazy, indolent even. Instead he just looked sullen, Aziphraphale thought.

“But-”

“I said no, angel. Not happening.”

Aziraphale let it go, instead procuring a bottle of an 1884 vintage he knew Crowley was fond of, and the matter was dropped.

\-------------

A week later, Crowley made the effort to empty out his mailbox.

_Mr. & Mr. Crowley-Fell_

_You are cordially invited…_

Crowley tossed the envelope onto a nearby side table and went to verbally assault his plants.

\------------

The bell over the bookshop door jangled roughly. Aziraphale sighed. “We’re closed!” he called, almost out of instinct. Of course he was closed; he’d locked the door, hadn’t he? He adjusted his bow tie in the mirror; he’d been unsure, of course, what one wore to these sorts of affairs, so his outfit was along the lines of his normal attire, only a touch more formal.

“Wearin’ white to a wedding, angel?”

Aziraphale looked up, and any retort he might’ve made died in his throat. Leaning against a bookshelf like it was built to support him - and who’s to say it wasn’t? - was Crowley, in a sleek black suit, groomed to within an inch of his life.

“Oh,” and then “well, I-”, followed by “I just - it’s not as though I’ve a lot of practice with these sorts of things, Crowley! However should I know?” His hands flapped nervously about his waistcoat for a few moments, before the angel turned to examine his reflection once again, just for something else to look at. He was quite used to Crowley being, well.. _fashionable_ , but there’d always been an impression of effortlessness about it. Like he’d rolled out of bed looking like that.

\- _don’t think about that, don’t even, find something else to think about_ -

“Anyhow, it’s not white, it’s more of an ecru, taupe really, and I thought you weren’t going to come?”

Crowley, who would literally prefer having his limbs chewed off by hellhounds than admit he’d thought he hadn’t been invited, said “Ngh.” And then, strolling in a loose circle around Aziraphale, looking the angel’s outfit over disapprovingly, “‘s white, angel. Gonna have to change it, unless you’re plannin’ on showing up the bride.”

“I would never!” sputtered Aziraphale. “It’s only… oh dear, I really haven’t anything else, I thought it looked quite smart…” He trailed off, shoulders slumping in disappointment. Behind him, Crowley rolled his eyes so hard he flopped backwards into an armchair. “Are you an angel or aren’t you?” he muttered, and without waiting for a reply, lifted one hand and snapped his fingers.

There was a brief, choked-off noise of protest that died rather quickly as Aziraphale regarded his new reflection, blinking owlishly.

_Oh._

Well then.

This wasn’t so bad, really.

It was somehow a blend of his own, outdated style, but with slightly more modern lines, and in a pleasant, soft dove-grey tone. He even still had his bow tie, only patterned in deeper charcoal shades, with just the faintest hints of - _he must be imagining it_ \- no, there were definitely a handful of scarlet threads woven in there. He lifted his fingers to straighten it, cautiously.

There was a very persistent, nagging thought in the back of his mind, knocking irritably and demanding attention.

Was this simply an ‘acceptable’ style change, a spur-of-the-moment act of goodwill? Or was this… Aziraphale tried to steal a surreptitious glance in the mirror behind him.

Was this meant to complement Crowley’s suit?

“Well,” he finally managed, turning away from the mirror and doing his level best to wear a pleasantly neutral expression, “if you’re quite sure, then.” The demon made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat and curled forward out of the chair, somehow looking as though the motion was pulled from his hips. It was an entirely inhuman gesture, and Aziraphale found somewhere else to fix his eyes for the next several seconds. “We’ll be late, angel.”

\--------

While it was never outright stated as such, having Anathema and Newton’s wedding in the Jasmine Cottage garden seemed the most reasonable option in order to ensure both of their unusual new friends would be in attendance. Neither of the two ever said a word about it - Aziraphale still wasn’t entirely sure Newt fully understood either of their natures - but he could see it in Anathema’s eyes when she greeted them both after the brief, simple ceremony. Crowley had feigned disinterest throughout, sprawling as inelegantly there as he did anywhere, but there was genuine fondness in the handshake he’d offered afterwards.

And when was the last time anyone thought to invite a demon to a wedding, after all?

\---------

The garden was full of voices, a blend of accents from both sides of the ocean, as both families mingled, friends met friends, and dancing commenced. Aziraphale sat comfortably on a bench in the corner, a glass of wine between his hands, simply basking in the feelings of love that suffused the area. He would have been quite content to sit happily and observe, and had very nearly accomplished that, when a minor ruckus erupted near the bar.

Strangely, most of the guests paid it no mind, but Aziraphale couldn’t miss the stumbling mass of black-clad limbs staggering - no, being pushed - across the garden. He stood, and was able to make out Crowley, surrounded by all four of the Them, who were doggedly ignoring his protests as they bodily dragged, shoved, and manhandled the demon across the grass towards Aziraphale.

The whole dogpile stopped several paces away, while each of the children disentangled themselves from Crowley and backed away, staring expectantly at him. Several times he opened his mouth, as if to argue, and was met with stubborn glares in return. Finally he jammed his hands into his pockets, swaying drunkenly in place, and stared at Aziraphale’s feet.

“‘saweddin’an’theywon’tleavemealoneunlesswedance,” he mumbled.

Aziraphale blinked.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch -”

“ _Dancing,_ angel, these little hellions won’t get off my back until we dance.”

Aziraphale locked eyes with the children behind Crowley, and he could’ve sworn Pepper winked.

“Well, then,” he said, seriously. “Mustn’t disrespect tradition. That is what one does at a wedding, I suppose.” Crowley’s head snapped up, and he wobbled slightly. “Don’t be ridiculous, angel,” he snapped, “you don’t even know how to dance.”

“Neither do you, my dear, but it certainly doesn’t look too difficult,” came the reply, as the angel indicated the main dancing area with raised brows and a tip of his head. The children smirked, and disappeared into the crowd. Aziraphale shrugged, and held out his hands, doing his best to look more confident than he felt.

One heartbeat, two, three -

\- _please, someone, anyone, just let him have this_ -

Crowley stumbled forward, thudding against Aziraphale’s chest gracelessly, one hand landing in the angel’s, the other wrapping around his waist.

\--------

Neither of them knew exactly how long they’d been there. Aziraphale had been right - it wasn’t all that difficult, this modern dancing, and the music playing had been rather sweet and soft and he’d quite lost track of time, his eyes closed, his head slowly drifting downward until his nose was nearly buried in the crook between Crowley’s neck and shoulder. The demon smelled lovely, all woodsmoke and earth, and for a time it had been pleasant to forget everything else and just be.

He wasn’t sure what noise had startled them out of their reverie, but his head popped up suddenly, blinking out over the near-empty garden. “Oh,” he whispered, and the sound seemed to jolt Crowley back to full attention, his spine stiffening uncharacteristically straight, looking around and dropping Aziraphale’s hand as though burned. Without thinking, Aziraphale tensed his arm, preventing the demon from pulling away entirely. For a long moment, the two simply stared at one another.

\-----------

As the countryside zipped by outside the Bentley’s windows, Aziraphale turned a soft smile on Crowley. “You were right, of course. About my suit. Thank you, my dear.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

Nothing more was said the rest of the ride back to the bookshop.

\---------

Aziraphale kept the bow tie, after. Neither of them mentioned it.


End file.
